


Nightcall

by barghest



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Community: hannibalkink, Gen, Ghosts, Hannibal does not believe in the paranormal (apparently), Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Paranormal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-15
Updated: 2015-09-16
Packaged: 2018-04-21 00:07:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4807409
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/barghest/pseuds/barghest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal does not believe in the paranormal - but when Alana passingly describes the Shoebox Telephone, a method of contacting the deceased, he cannot pass up the opportunity to contact someone special. (A Hannibal Kinkmeme fill, details inside.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Outbound Call

**Author's Note:**

> a fill for http://hannibalkink.dreamwidth.org/4963.html?thread=7906659#cmt7906659 on the good ole hannikink! there will be a second part to this, happening within the next few days, when hannibal receives his call back. here is a link to the shoebox telephone guide, if you are curious (for research purposes only, ofc) as to how it works: http://www.paranormal-encounters.com/wp/the-shoebox-telephone-speaking-with-the-dead/

Hannibal has to buy new shoes to acquire a shoebox - he routinely recycles his own, having donated the last few boxes to a local art project, buoying up his reputation in the community. He selects a pair of Oxfords; smart brown leather and freshly polished, they fit neatly into his shoe rack in the space vacated by a pair of boots that got a little too much blood on them. He also buys a belt (one must have a belt to match the shoes), and it coils in his hand when he gets home, perched on the edge of his bed, staring the shoebox down.

It was Alana who mentioned the shoebox telephone first - a paranormal game, of sorts, similar to a ouija board in that it's used to contact the deceased, and just as trivial a pursuit. Hannibal does not believe in the paranormal, he is the only paranormal he needs (and honestly it's nothing short of an insult to call his food paranormal - it is supernatural in its taste and content, if anything). Alana had briefly explained it, merely mentioning it in passing at the Bureau when a recent case file showed signs of superstitious beliefs in the killer's _modus_. A scary game for children.

Hannibal does not believe in the paranormal, he assures himself, as he finishes a bottle of wine one evening, tapping through the internet to find more about the game. It's relatively simple, the eponymous shoebox being the key item in the short list of components.

Hannibal does not believe in the paranormal, even as he ensconces himself in his wardrobe, crouched under his suits, staring at the piece of paper on his lap, willing the words to pour out of his pen. The edges of the mask peel back a little, a more fragile creature cowers behind his usual collected appearance.

_Dear Mischa_ , he begins, pen shaking a bit in his hands - it's the drink, he assures himself, it's the mix of pan seared thigh flesh and merlot in his stomach, not the decades of anguish trying to burst past the floodgates deep in his mind - as he scrawls across the page. Halfway down the page, Hannibal has to pause, the sweat on his palms making the pen slip. He wipes his hands on his thighs, the silk of his pyjamas cool to the touch. Will would laugh, seeing his psychiatrist crouched here, curled up beneath his suit jackets and shirts with a shoebox and a plastic cup in front of him. Hannibal grips the pen harder, tears prickling in the corners of his eyes - in the dim light of his wardrobe, he can peel back the mask a little, breathe softly and whole and red eyed like he hasn't for years. He bites his lip, and the pen runs faster across the paper as he struggles with his composure.

The paper shakes in Hannibal's hands as he scratches at it furiously, a small dishevelled boy replacing the fully grown doctor bunched up in the scent of cotton shirts and shoe polish. The instructions said to have no doubt when writing - and there's not a shred of it in Hannibal's mind as he writes, shoving through the murderous shadows clogging his mind to find ever scrap, every sentence he wants to say. His hand aches by the end of the page, as he squeezes a few last words on, usually neat calligraphy now a spidery scrawl.

He pants in silence for a few minutes, the dim light creeping in from his bedroom barely illuminating his letter.

Hannibal has a shaky belief in the paranormal, hands still shaking as he picks up the thread to fasten to the object of power - something personal to the deceased, the guide had said, and Hannibal quakes holding the tiny shoe in his hand. Maybe he's not drunk enough for this, maybe he needs to lurch out of his wardrobe and take a nightcap, give up this whole, ridiculous shambles of an idea. Dispose of the evidence and go back to science, to logic - to logic, logic, logic, Hannibal grits his teeth as logic fails miserably and he stays inside the closet, a child's shoe still cradled in his palm.

It's stiff, almost antique leather and a little dusty, the red dye faded with time. Little 'M's are carved into the toe, surrounded with a delicate pattern of holes. A brogue, it would be called, if it was sold now - but Hannibal only sees it in a distant shop window, small hands gesticulating wildly towards it, demanding to try it on, brother, you got new shoes, why not I? He smiles despite himself, not the predatory smile he saves for Will, but a boyish smile, the same one he couldn't help but have when Mischa turned her toothy grin on him, twirling in the grass of their garden whilst wearing them for the first time.

He ties the thread to it, before his hands can feel the frost clinging to the sole, Mischa clutching his arm, whimpering that she's cold. Hannibal has a shaky belief in the paranormal, but it's less shaky than his hands as he threads the string into the paper cup.

_Dear Mischa_ , Hannibal clears his throat, cup in hand, silk pyjamas clammy on his legs as pushes thoughts of Will and Alana and work out of his mind. In the safety of his wardrobe, the doctor lets himself dissolve a little more, composure gone as he crawls back to being a scared little orphan, thick socks pulled up over scraped knees against the cold, clutching a little leather shoe in his hand. "Dear Mischa," Hannibal inhales sharply, tongue dry against the roof of his mouth as he moves to his mother tongue, "dear Mischa, I'm…sorry, I'm sorry…I wrote that twice, by the way, so I'm." He swallows. "Following instructions, it says to say everything, I'm babbling, I'm--"

Hannibal exhales hard, running a hand through his hair, "every day I think of you, and, and there's not a day. Not a moment in time, Mischa, when I don’t regret. What happened. I…I miss you," he stumbles and breathes, throat tight as he speaks softly into the paper cup, eyes on the shoe in his hand, "you know, I bet…I hope so, wherever you are. I hope you are okay. I know that I let you down…and I can hardly make it up to you properly from this side, so I can simply beg forgiveness from you…" He remembers the colour of her eyes; the same darkness as his own, but they sparkled with life, with a wholeness that Hannibal himself never had.

"I thought this was a petty game," in the shadows, he stares hard at the shoe in his hand, "but now I'm writing this out, and, Mischa, I'm really hoping you hear me…I wish you were here, I wish you could meet some of the people I am acquaintances with. You would like Will Graham," a smile creeps onto his face, the shadows of his face smoothing a little, "you share with him a love for animals, and the outdoors, and crafts. I would introduce you…perhaps over dinner, I'm. I'm a good cook now, you would be proud of me. I hope you are proud of me, even. I hope you can see me, and can bring yourself to forgive me."

The more he speaks, the less shaky he grows, losing himself in the words in his hand, "I have tried as hard as I can, to repent. For what I have done to you…I have tried to get the taste of you out of my mouth, but it still lingers. Mischa…I have missed you so much, I still do. I hope you do too. My heart aches for two people in this life, and one…," he swallows heavy, the back of his head brushing past a sky blue shirt, "one of them is you." The letter sinks into the shoebox, the small shoe holding it down, and Hannibal's eyes close as he sets the cup on top, leaning back against the wooden side panel of the wardrobe.

It takes him a few minutes to emerge, his phone buzzing softly on the bedside table - Will is calling, no doubt feverish over a crime scene, and Hannibal smooths himself over before he answers. Even still, Will probes the tremor in his voice, and he can't help a soft smile.


	2. Inbound Call

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannibal awaits a reply to his drunk phonecall attempt, letting himself sink back into normality - until a distant ringing sends his carefully constructed walls crumbling down.

He hears nothing for two days - the weekend stretching out ahead of him, empty save for Will appearing on his door step at quarter to four on the Saturday, cheap bottle of sauvignon blanc in hand, tousled fringe falling thick above his glasses. (Will always did look better in glasses.) Hannibal relents enough to let him in and use the white wine to flavour mussels, fresh from the shore. Temporarily, the shoebox in his wardrobe, paper cup balanced on top, slips from his mind and Hannibal relaxes in the comfort of his living room for the evening. Hannibal believes a little less in the paranormal. He lets the hours be eaten away by Will's slow, methodical composition of sentences and the crackle of the log fire burning in the hearth. 

The fire crackles afresh in his heart on Sunday night - Hannibal's normally dreamless sleep interrupted by the innards of the Bureau alight around him, but not a flame reaches out to touch him. He feels more like he has sunk into a warm bath, swimming through the smoky air as Jack's desk crumbles into an ashen heat beside him. It's quiet, beyond the sound of flames licking at the wall - and ringing, distant ringing, vibrating through his bones as he pushes through a door--

Hannibal jerks awake in bed, the ringing still hot in his ears as he untwists the blankets from between his legs in an attempt to slither out of bed. His mask is shaky, this early in the morning, but there is no one there to see the cracks as he slowly approaches the wardrobe, footfalls soft in the thick carpet. (The guide said that the call back would come in a dream, and his heart swells a little as he contemplates the thought of hearing her voice again, after so many years. At the same time, his heart aches with the estranged emotion of worry, perhaps this is a false alarm and she hasn't called at all.)

Inside, the shoebox is still closed, and Hannibal breathes a sigh of relief, no words passing his lips as he once again presses himself into the tight space beneath his suits. The door closes and he instinctively hugs his legs towards him - the mask of Hannibal Lecter, masterful psychiatrist, peels back like old wallpaper in the dark and again a small boy emerges, thick socks stolen from someone else, small freckles surrounding defiant eyes that aren't afraid of the shadows. The cup in front of him, he reaches for with some trepidation, a tremor in his fingers as he pulls it up to his ear, listening intently.

At first, there is nothing.

Hannibal holds his breath a little, teetering on the edge of disbelieving, of accepting what he logically knew was right in the first place. This is a stupid game, invented to scare the kind of kids that Alana deals with, something for them to spook one another with around a campfire. Laughable, almost, in its appeal to the gullible. The cup brushes his ear lobe, and he half considers putting it down.

" _Hannibal_."

The doctor does not jump, but he does inhale sharply - the voice that vibrates down the thread into the cup is soft, distant as if played on an old record, girlish but older than the giggly child he remembers. She sighs gently, a fifties singer warming up for a difficult song, as if Hannibal can feel how heavy her heart is down the line. He touches fingers to his lips, the taste of human flesh thick on his tongue despite his entirely pescatarian weekend, and crams the cup closer to his ear so as not to miss a sound.

" _Hannibal…brother…it's cold here without you…_ " He could burn for hearing the sadness in her voice, he would give her every ounce of warmth in his body if he could. " _I'm sorry…that we had such short a time together…I miss…_ " She slips into an indistinct whisper, and Hannibal presses his free hand to his other ear, shutting off the hum of the city's night in order to hear her better as she continues, " _….wish I had gotten more time…get lonely often here…wish you had called before, your voice is…darker…what year is it, brother…?_ "

The guide had said not to speak, not to make a sound even if there is questions, and Hannibal pushes a thumb into his mouth to press his teeth together - desperate to answer, desperate to have a proper conversation again. " _Did you ever…become a doctor, brother…? I wish….I wish I could see you now…_ ," she fades in and out, and the child that nestles in Hannibal's chest wants to burst free, to beg her to stay on the line longer, to reiterate that he's sorry for everything. Instead he closes his eyes, the dry cleaning detergent wafting around him as he tries to focus on her words without interruption.

" _Will, he sounds….sounds nice, sounds….good…I want to know more…is he a close friend…? I hope you have….friends, brother…_ " Hannibal could choke, but that would be uncouth for someone like him, and instead he shuts his eyes tighter, glad that Will is not here to chip away the last few pieces of his usual mask. " _I hope you are happy…I am…to hear from you…to know that you are sorry….I forgive…you, brother…_ " He sees stars behind his eyelids, a galaxy painted in the void one witnesses when they screw their eyes up tight, his hands cold even against his own skin. " _I'm just sorry….I am not there, for you…_ " Her name sits heavy on his lips, but he daren't speak, he daren't interrupt her in case she pulls away.

" _…love you, brother…_ ," there's a soft whistling of wind as she sighs again, her voice growing gradually distant - the call is ending, and the indents on his cheeks from his fingertips will do nothing to slow the process, " _…love you…we all love you..._ "

Hannibal Lecter does not allow himself the privilege of crying very often, but, as he snaps the thread to officially end the call, a few tears creep down his cheeks regardless. In the morning, he cancels his appointments for the day, a crumpled black and white family photo occupying his attention whilst he seats himself by the gentle crackle of the fireplace. Hannibal does not truly believe in the paranormal, but from then on, he pads around it, maintaining a respectful distance - unless the hands, and voice, of a young girl reach out to him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> not as long as the first bit i think, but i had fun. \o/ hope the original prompter likes it, if they ever read it. kudos n comments always appreciated.


End file.
